She drew a large X with her finger on the window. “It’s not dirty. It’s just worn out.”
Then she came over and sat on the edge of the bed. “We spread out our bedding every night and roll it up again in the morning.”
She picked up the book on my nightstand and started to flip through it.
“Take it!” I said. “It’s yours. I have two copies.”
She put the book down and stood up. “I have to go,” she said, and left.
The next day I waited for the principal’s summons but nothing happened. When I saw him in the hallway and said a timid hello, he just nodded without looking at me and walked past. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. I said to myself that if this mood lasted a few more days, I was in the clear.
The days passed, and the Easter holiday began.
My aunt and uncle on my mother’s side were coming from Abadan to stay with us. As usual, they came with their arms full of gifts. For me there were little colored stickers to paste on the Easter eggs, for Father there was an English hunting knife, and for mother there was a beaded evening bag and a big box of fresh sour cherries. That night all of the family came over. My mother was overjoyed to see her sister and kept laughing happily. After dinner she put a huge bowl of the cherries on the table and said, “Poor me, what am I to do with all these sour cherries?”
My uncle pointed to us children, who were attacking them hungrily. “With this cloud of locusts, they’ll be gone in two days.”
Mother yelled, “That’s enough! You’re going to get stomach aches.”
Grandmother pushed aside the burnt cutlet on her plate with the tip of her fork and said, “What big cherries. They’d make a nice jam.”
My mother was in such a good mood that she agreed with Grandmother. “What a good idea! I’ll make jam with the rest of them.”
I saw my grandmother and Auntie look at each other and smirk. Mother’s lips formed into a thin line, and from the way she jumped from her seat, picked up the bowl of cherries, and repeated, “I’m going to make them into jam,” I knew she had seen, too.
The next day Mother asked me, “Will you help me pit the cherries?”
Her sister had gone off to visit Auntie Shakeh. My mother had complained of a headache as an excuse not to go.
“Yes,” I said, “as long as I can play with the pits.”
“As long as you don’t make a mess,” my mother answered.
I sunk a crochet needle into a cherry. The stone popped out and fell into the bowl under my hands. Red juice spilled over my fingers. I was a brave commander who killed the enemy soldiers with a single mighty blow from a spear and tossed aside their bodies one by one.
In a book that my father read from time to time, and whose photos my mother had forbidden me to look at, there was a strange picture. It was a photo of a hill made out of people’s skulls. I wasn’t even old enough to go to school the first time I saw it.
I asked my father, “What is this picture of?”
“The heads of the Armenians who were murdered by the Ottomans,” he replied.
Mother had arrived at exactly that moment and yelled at my father, “Stop! He’s a child, you’ll frighten him.”
Father, still staring at the photo, said, “Child or adult, everyone has to know what tragedy befell his people.”
When I got older I understood why each year we celebrated my birthday, which was 24 April,* a few days early or a few days late. Grandmother and Mrs. Grigorian fasted each year on 24 April, went to church, and lit candles.
The scent of the warm jam wafted through the house as I made a little hill with the sour cherry stones.
In the afternoon Mother put a jar of jam in my hands and said, “Take this to the principal.”
I hadn’t heard anything from Tahereh for a few days. New toys and the holiday ritual of visiting and receiving visitors had filled my days. I missed her. I jumped up to go.
My mother pointed to the corner of the room. “First clean up those pits.”
Jam in hand, I went through the open school gates. There was no one in the courtyard. When I got close to the janitor’s room, I peeped in. Tahereh’s father was sitting in a corner of the room. His head was leaning against the wall and his eyes were closed. An acrid smell was seeping from the room. Tahereh wasn’t there. Neither was her mother. I turned my head up to the window of the principal’s room and paused. Suddenly I remembered why I had come. In the excitement of possibly seeing Tahereh, I had forgotten to be afraid of seeing the principal again. I thought to myself, There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m a big boy. I got good marks in my exams, and I’m almost done with my Easter homework.
I climbed the wooden stairs. The hallway of the upper floor was half dark. How different it was from those times when there were children shouting and running through it. It was as if I was seeing this hallway for the first time. On one side a long rail faced the courtyard with some plaster columns covered in students’ graffiti. On the other side were the doors to the classrooms. The wooden floor creaked beneath my feet. Why had I never heard this sound before? The closer I got to the principal’s room, the more my old fear of him returned.
I said to myself, I hope he’s not there. But what if he is? I will say hello, then I will say, “My mother sent this jam for you.” I will put the jar in his hand, say goodbye, and leave. What if he doesn’t put his hand out? Then I will put the jar on the table. Which table? It was as though I was writing a composition for the principal rather than planning to speak to him.
I realized that I had never seen the principal’s room before. Tahereh had seen it. She said he had a lot of books. The walls were covered from floor to ceiling with filled bookshelves. She told me there was also a big cross on the wall. I asked Tahereh if the principal had read all those books. Tahereh said, “I’m sure he has.” She said that the principal always sat in his room either reading a book or writing. Sometimes he got down on his knees in front of the cross and prayed.
As I got closer to the room I saw that the door was half open. I knew that I should knock on the door but the sound of crying that came from within startled me, and I forgot that eavesdropping was a nasty thing to do. I peeked round the door into the room. The first thing I saw was the big cross on the wall, and then the books. They were in the bookcases that filled the room, on the floor, on the large table in the middle of the room. The principal sat behind the table with his head in his hands.
A woman was sitting at the table, too. In the twilight I could only see her profile. She reminded me of the painting of the Holy Mary hanging above the altar in the church. She played with a corner of her chador, talking while she cried. I couldn’t hear what she said. Her voice was calm and weary, like when she spoke to me and Tahereh. I knew I mustn’t stand there, but I stayed anyway.
The principal got up. He put his hands in his pockets. Then he took them out. With one hand he pushed the hair off his forehead. With the other he closed the book that was on the table. Then he walked towards Tahereh’s mother.
I heard a noise behind me. The wooden floor of the hallway creaked beneath someone’s footsteps.
I turned around.
It was Tahereh’s father. I hid myself behind one of the pillars.
Tahereh’s father walked heavily towards the principal’s room. There was something long and shiny in his hands and he used this to push open the door.
For a few moments I heard only the sound of the wind in the hallway. Then suddenly there was an eruption of sound. Weeping and shouting and things crashing to the floor.
I froze behind the pillar. I felt that something very bad was about to happen. I imagined I was going home. In my mind I crossed the school courtyard, then our own courtyard; the stairs, the balcony. Now I was in my room. It was like those nights when I woke up thirsty and still half asleep, thought I had gotten out of bed and gone to the kitchen for a drink of water, but in reality I was still in bed.
Suddenly I felt thirsty.
I heard
the sound of breaking glass and of something being thrown into the school courtyard. Tahereh’s mother screamed, the principal said something in a low voice and Tahereh’s father yelled, “I’m going to kill you both!”
I backed further away, sat on the floor, and stared at the plaster pillar. There was something written at the bottom of it that had been scratched out, then there was a plus sign, then another name after it had been scratched out, followed by an equal symbol and a heart with an arrow through it. I heard footsteps tap-tap on the stairs. Several people ran by me: my parents, and my aunt and uncle. I closed my eyes.
My father and uncle were shouting, “Stop it, you crazy bastard!”
I heard my mother shout. “This is all that woman’s fault!” Then I heard the sound of a slap, Tahereh’s mother crying, my parents talking and the sound of my aunt muttering under her breath, “Oh my God.”
I focused on the pierced heart at the bottom of the pillar. I wondered whose initials they were? Who loved whom? Who didn’t want anyone to know who loved whom? The door of the principal’s room burst open and my father and uncle dragged Tahereh’s father out, who was crying. Behind them came my aunt, pushing Tahereh’s mother in front of her.
I poked my head out from behind the pillar and watched them until they had gone down the stairs. At the end of the hallway I noticed a shadow. It was Tahereh. I got up to go over to her but she vanished.
A wind blew through the hall.
I looked into the principal’s room. He was sitting on his chair with his eyes closed. My mother stood next to him.
Everything was quiet.
My mother wiped the principal’s forehead with a white handkerchief and said, “You should not concern yourself. It is not your doing.” My mother never spoke such articulate Armenian, not even in front of my grandmother.
The principal didn’t move. Then he opened his eyes and stared at the cross on the wall.
My mother hesitated for a few moments. Then she crumpled up the handkerchief and walked towards the door.
I backed away. My foot caught on something. I looked. It was the broken jar of jam. Red syrup was spilling onto the wooden floor of the hallway.
When I looked up I was face to face with my mother. She started. Then she quickly smoothed her hair with her hand. She opened her mouth as if to say something but I backed away and ran.
Tahereh wasn’t in the courtyard. I looked through the window of their room. Her father sat curled up in one corner. Her mother sat in another corner, crying.
I moved away from the window. I felt terrible and wanted to cry. I put my head down and walked away. With the tip of my foot I kicked around the sand. When I looked up again I saw that I was in the graveyard behind the church. Tahereh was sitting on the grass next to one of the graves. I went over to her and sat down. She was tearing a long stalk of grass into tiny bits.
Without looking at me she asked, “Aren’t you scared?”
She plucked a few more blades of grass. “I never understand why you’re scared of this place,” she went on. “These people are dead. There’s nothing to be afraid of from the dead. They can’t beat you. They can’t bother you. But my father beats my mother and me. He won’t leave us alone. I’m afraid of my father. No – I’m not afraid of him, I hate him. I wish he were dead!” She raised her hand to her cheek. I looked at her. She was crying.
I had never seen her cry before. I put my hand on her shoulder. She jerked away, got up, and left. There was something odd about the way she was walking. I sat there for a while, tearing up stalks of grass.
When I got home, my mother didn’t look at me; she just told me to wash my hands, eat my dinner, and go to bed. From my bed, I heard voices in the sitting room.
My aunt said, “Unbelievable! I can’t believe you would take the side of such a woman.”
“I’m not taking her side,” my father said. “I just know she isn’t that type of woman.”
My aunt laughed. “You know? How?”
My uncle said, “So it was this principal of yours who—”
I heard my mother’s bangles jangling. “Does anyone want tea?”
“Oh my God!” my aunt exclaimed. “I’ve never heard of such things.”
Just as I was about to fall asleep, I suddenly realized why Tahereh’s way of walking looked so odd to me. It was the first time I had seen her walk slowly and without any hurry. She wasn’t running or jumping or skipping, and I, for the first time, hadn’t been scared to be alone in the graveyard behind the church.
Part II
seashells
IT WAS THE DAY BEFORE EASTER.
At lunch, Alenush said, “Behzad and I have decided to get married.” Just as if she were saying, “Could you please pass the salt?”
Martha froze for a few moments. Then she began to roll small pieces of soft bread into tiny balls.
We’d been sitting like this at the table when the news of Grandmother’s death had reached us. That day, too, when I had hung up the receiver and said, “It was Arsham. Grandmother…” Martha had not moved for a few moments. Then she had started to pile up the balls of bread into a little heap on the side of her plate. We had known for a long time that Grandmother was dying. And we had been waiting for some time to hear this news from our daughter.
Alenush turned to face me. “Dad, can you please pass the salt?”
Martha continued to ball up her bread. I looked at my untouched food and carefully put my spoon back down on my plate. A loud cry drifted in from the lane: “Scrap iron, water heaters!” The things peddlers wanted to buy had changed so much since the old days.
When we had first come to Tehran, each time we heard the cry, “Coats, pants, jackets!” Mother would say to me, “Edmond, go call him.”
Grandmother, if she heard about this (and she always heard about it) would frown. “But that wasn’t even old! It could still be worn.” Or she would shake her head ruefully and say, “That beautiful china! Those copper bowls, mementoes of our dearly departed.”
“Our dearly departed” was my father’s father, but my mother was the enemy both of old things and of all keepsakes that came from my father’s family. My mother would shrug at Grandmother’s disapproving outbursts and her lips would form a single thin line.
My grandmother and aunt, when they thought I was busy playing, would gossip behind my mother’s back. “Our Lady of Perpetual Whims. Nothing has any value to her.”
The peddler cried, “Doors and aluminum windows, gas canisters, refrigerators, TVs! We buy it all!”
Alenush pushed back her chair. “I’ve got to go. I’m already late for class.”
She looked at Martha. Then at me. Then back at Martha. Then at me. I tried to smile. Alenush chewed her lip and tilted her head. Just like when she was a child and was trying to say, without words, that she was sorry for whatever kind of mischief she’d made. I wished this were just another one of her childish pranks. But I knew it wasn’t. When the door closed, there was a little heap of bread balls on Martha’s plate.
I got up from the table and walked over to stand by the glass doors facing the garden. The violets in the flower bed this year were all yellow. I asked, “What color were the violets last year?”
Martha said, “Edmond, I beg of you, talk to her. Please!”
She hadn’t cried this bitterly even when Grandmother died.
I sat down in an armchair and looked out at the violets. Behzad and I have decided to get married. I pictured their faces: my cousin Arsham, my other cousins, their husbands and wives, the whole family…My aunt! I tried to guess what their reaction would be: first disbelief, then shock, then silence, then…
Years before, when the daughter of one of our relatives had married an Englishman, Grandmother and Auntie Shakeh had refused to visit them until the birth of their daughter.
A strong wind gusted through the garden and all of the violets bent over in the direction in which it blew. I thought what a relief it was that Grandmother was
no longer with us. Who would have had the heart to tell her that the light of her life wanted to marry a non-Armenian? Possibly only Alenush herself.
One night, when Alenush was about seven or eight, she had come down in her white nightdress, hair loose around her shoulders, to say goodnight before going to bed. Grandmother was staying with us.
Martha said, “Don’t forget to brush your teeth and say your evening prayers.”
Alenush, her back to us and facing the door, shrugged and said, “I don’t feel like it.”
Grandmother retorted, “If you don’t brush your teeth, they’ll fall out.”
Alenush turned and stared at her. “I didn’t mean brushing my teeth,” she said. “I meant I don’t feel like praying.”
Grandmother sat up straight in her chair. “Praying is our way of giving thanks to God. For all of the blessings He has bestowed on us; for creating us.”
Alenush opened the door. “I didn’t ask Him to create me, so why should I thank Him?”
Martha scolded her. “Alenush!”
Grandmother said slowly, “Leave it, she’s only a child.”
After that, each Sunday in church, Grandmother seated Alenush next to herself and when the services were over she gave her pictures of saints or a colorful rosary or a small gold or silver cross. A few years later, at Christmas, Alenush painted a large picture of Jesus for Grandmother, and all around the edge were pasted the pictures and rosaries Grandmother had given her.
When I asked why she hadn’t put the crosses on the painting, she replied, “I’m keeping those; they’re so shiny and pretty.”
The violets were still being bent this way and that by the wind. The wall clock in the hallway chimed three times. I remembered my meeting with Danique. She must be waiting for me, I thought. Signing two hundred second-term report cards was the last thing I felt like doing right now. What do I feel like doing right now? I wondered. Just sit here and look at the violets. I dialed the school’s number.